Itch, Ergo Sum 

“That’s what they mean by the love that passeth understanding: that pride, that furious desire to hide that abject nakedness which we bring here with us, carry with us into operating rooms, carry stubbornly and furiously with us into the earth again.”

— William Faulkner, As I Lay Dying

He read many books in his life. More than most people he knew. But now, in his coffin, he wishes he hadn't. He can't remember a single word, but he remembers the thousands and thousands of hours of sitting down and reading, and how they felt on his body. If he concentrates hard enough, he can remember a woman rotting in the heat while her son builds her a coffin. Coffin is the right word, with meaning and weight and texture. He likes it, so he tries to say it, but his lips are dry and dead. And he promised he wouldn't move a muscle. That he remembers.

There's honesty in death, everyone outside the casket agrees. You die with secrets, of course, but you die honest. Or you die honestly. Take your secrets with you, but leave some truth behind. They all agree, the ones outside. Well, almost everyone. One of them wants to believe you die honestly, but knows better.

A widow sits closest to the casket, elegant and rigid. A picture of strength, except for her fidgety fingers. The family is there, mourning the death of a husband, a father, an oldman. Was he loved? Sure. He was an ordinary man in the ethical sense: he was certain of what was right and what was wrong, and when he did the latter, he had a good reason. What more can you ask for?

The important thing is his body. Fat, incredibly fat. Not a hair on his white, fat body. Now that white has turned to a greenish purple, but the fat remains. That's honesty, in a way. Bodily honesty. Imagine opening the coffin and finding a skinny little guy. No, he died fat, he'll remain fat, and that's that. Conservative, but those are the rules of this family he founded.

He's itchy now. His toes, you see, are not there anymore. They were lost in the accident. Jet ski accident, if you must know. The rest of his fat body is miraculously somewhat intact, but the toes. God, those toes. Some shrimp is probably eating them right now, or maybe even mating with them. His toes were always shrimp-like, he used to think. For some reason, the thought of his shrimp-toes always emerged when he read. He remembers the body, not the words. He's itchy. Would it be dishonest if he scratched his foot? He promised he wouldn't move, and doing that would be a form of dishonesty. But all he has now is itch and body and coffin; he doesn't even know if there's anything outside of that. Can honesty exist if there's no one else? Maybe, maybe not, but itchiness does. Itch, ergo sum.

The funeral outside ends. Language flows more freely on this side of the wood. There's even dialogue, if you can believe it. There are names, too, and the names talk to each other about Mirko, the man in the casket. What a great man he was. A big man, more like it. Fake but honest laughs. Fake because the joke is terrible, honest because they're a bridge between grieving people, and there's honesty in death.

But when you get language, dialogue, and names, you also get lies. Someone out here, extramuros, is lying. No need for mystery: it's Martha, the widow. No need for a second mystery: she told everyone Mirko was dead, which he is. But she failed to mention he's moving and somewhat sentient. That's a big breach in terms of forthrightness, but her silence is prideful and merciful.

Martha and Mirko's sons are there. In their 40s now, still handsome and strong, not fat like their father. Their grandchildren are there too, a bit fat, but nothing too alarming. Most other people have left, so only the family remains. For all they know, their toeless patriarch lies comfortably inside a casket, waiting. For what? Perhaps God, perhaps the void, perhaps reincarnation. But no, Mirko waits for the itch to go away. It's getting to the point where itch invades his leg, his asshole, his spine and tongue. He's an itchy, fat, toeless corpse, and that's too much for anyone to handle. His body can't feel what's outside, but if it could, oh, if it could, it'd feel Martha's presence through the wood, steadying the box whenever his gargantuan body shifts. If they heard it, they'd all scream and run. But Martha doesn't let them hear. She distracts them, faintly and elegantly and in such a dignified way. And she does it all out of mercy.

He tries hard to concentrate on what he used to read. And he remembers, briefly, the little old lady wasting away in the heat. And the miles and miles of mud and rain her family went through to put her underground. And he remembers the boy who says his mother is a dead fish. He understands, kid. His toes are shrimpbrides now. It happens.

Outside, the family gathers around Martha. You know the kind of things they'd say, no need to repeat them. Sad words with sad smiles and sad hugs. One of the boys asks why the casket is closed. Martha says they should remember Grandpa Mirko as he was, not as he is. What is he now? That's private.

But the enormous body needs to scratch. Slowly, it crumbles, curling like a shrimp, plates of flesh shifting as the body dismorphs to scratch. And his whole body shifts like tectonic plates, moving the earth. And his movement is powerful. And the decaying man is sublime.

Outside the casket, Martha sees the shaking and feels the panic in her body that doesn't lie. This is why mercy is so risky.

She distracts them with a story of young love, and she spices it with the memory of the body and the infection of the sea rot, because she can't forget it. The adults don't understand, so they give a sad laugh. The children think they do. And what to do now about the body?

It was just hours ago, when Martha was alone with it, that she discovered the whole thing. It was moving. A little at first, then a lot. Mirko looked like a dumb baby, a gigantic, rotten, dumb baby.

Mirko couldn't talk, couldn't walk, couldn't think. But he could listen to Martha's voice. In his ever-shrinking brain, the memory of that voice remained, because it was part of his body. She could have called for help. Could have opened the lid and let the sons see what she saw. But pride and mercy got the best of her. So Martha cradled the old man's baby corpse, she felt connected to it. She didn't question it. She took it as a miracle, a chance to say one last goodbye to Mirko. And she kept it a secret. The sons, the grandchildren, everyone else would have seen a chunk of rotten meat pressing against a lid. She saw Mirko. But mercy is dishonesty, and it is found out in the end.

So she kissed the decaying Mirko on the forehead, a kiss full of love and just a tiny bit of disgust, and told him not to move a muscle. And she knew Mirko understood, his foggy, dead eyes looking straight at her with puppy love.

What would she do after that? Burn the body, wait for it to decompose, try to remove the soul with alchemy. Something, that's for sure. She wouldn't just stay there in silence. She would hide him, spare him the indignity of public and familiar putrefaction. The dishonesty of the living.

Mirko can't take it anymore. He shrivels and shrivels until he finally reaches the itch. And he scratches with sexual abandon. The satisfaction is raw and obscene. But his body is as big as it is honest, and the itch has spread. He scratches the missing toes, the asshole, the spine and the tongue. And as he scratches, the coffinworld becomes smaller. Rather, it erupts.

The casket falls open to the ground, and a whaleman crawls out. Mirko is not surprised to see the light or his family. He scratches that foot until it bleeds. Well, no, it doesn't bleed because he's dead, but it would. And he loves every second of it, almost in the same way his toe is being shrimploved. He's all body and honesty now, because there's no subterfuge to what he does.

The handsome sons recoil and vomit. The grandchildren cry and run away. But Martha stands, no gasp, no shudder. The silence and composure only love can train into a body: to see the grotesque and not to flinch. Her body gives her away.

And what can one say when one is caught like that? Not a lot. In those moments, the body talks. She goes for a hug. A loving, careful hug; careful not to squeeze too much so that Mirko doesn't splatter all over the nice carpeted floor. A hug as reclamation: this body and this itch is hers and not theirs, and she will not share it. A hug as confession: the secret is now rotting in her arms. And Mirko hugs back, because his body remembers. His giant arms surround the tiny, veiled Martha. And something connects. The thousands of hours of reading, the fatness of his body, the toes being fucked by crustaceans, the timbre of Martha's voice. And he remembers something else: In a strange room you must empty yourself for sleep. And before you are emptied for sleep, what are you. And when you are emptied for sleep, you are not. And when you are filled with sleep, you never were. I don't know what I am. I don't know if I am or not.

And if he's being honest, he doesn't know. But his body does, and it knows itself as something rotten and dying, but also as a thing that loves so much its rotten nature can't hold it all in.

Author’s Note:

This story draws inspiration from As I Lay Dying by William Faulkner. The final paragraph contains a direct quote from the novel, used here with respect and literary intent.